Azriya
by elen-writings
Summary: A letter for the ashes. The Haradrim are seen as a vile people, such terrible beings that some do not even consider them to be people-but that is merely one perspective. Twenty years ago, Númenor conquered Nakkar, the native Harad tribe of the land. The Haradrim are oppressed and discriminated, their culture and language outlawed. Short story.
1. A Letter for the Ashes

A Letter for the Ashes

* * *

_To Azriya_

_In memory of Nakkar_

_For all those who are left_

S.A. 3312

My mother used to tell me that when the time came, we would all have to give up something, whether it was your home, loved ones, or life.

She honored her words with the latter. When the Númenóreans first came to us twenty years ago the year I was born, demanding tribute and fealty, they brought disease with them, but she did not die. Yet when the second wave came six years later, the disease grasped hold of her and she became nothing but charred ashes. Though I was only a child at the time, I still clearly remember the cremation and the look on my father's face as he turned away. After my mother's death, his smiles became scarce and his eyes eternally melancholy. Thus I lost my mother and my father's love at six.

Unlike my father, I have always known the Númenóreans' oppression. Twenty years ago, they took over our tribe, Nakkar. Twenty years ago, they outlawed our native tongue and our Harad culture. Twenty years go, they killed my mother. I am surprised they have not yet killed us all for mere sport.

Those words were no jest. Every month, they demanded from us an animal as a sacrifice, though we depended them to survive. And for what? For their god, they said, but I do not believe that. They have lied to us from the start; why would they not again? Now you must see why I say they kill my people for sport.

My father, the Chieftain of Nakkar, has done much to try and rid us of the Númenóreans, but too many times he has failed, and soon, I knew, he would grow weary of trying. I fear the day Nakkar falls wholly into the hands of the Númenóreans, I fear the day not one living soul remembers our culture, I fear the day my people forget who they are. If my father were to be taken by the Númenóreans for good, then by tradition, as the eldest of his children, I would be the new Chieftess. But the Númenórean law imposed on us would change that, and instead the position would fall to my seventeen-year-old brother, Nârduaye. Still a carefree boy, no one in their right mind would think that he would be better suited for the position than I. Being a woman makes no difference in the Harad tribes.

It was a night full of solitude and presage as my father and I strode down the scarcely lit Númenórean corridors. My people were nomads; we rarely stayed in one place for very long, but by the command of Lord Athugân, we had camped at the borders of his city he called Krâstomi for two years. It was the longest time yet they had ordered us here. The first time we had found my foster sister, Azriya, washed up from the sea.

No one had any idea where she came from, but there she was, a crying baby on the shores of Belfalas, so I decided to make her family. Something that seems to pervade me every time I think of her is something her wet nurse used to say about her. _The sea will be her beginning and ending, I don't doubt. Look at her eyes. She is so beautiful._

"Hyarizrê," my father said. "Do you think they would serve us _aeglos _at such a public feast?"

_Aeglos_ is the drink of our people, made of fermented mare's milk. I considered his words. "They might."

"They have grown fond of it these last few years," he went on. "Some things they outlaw, some things they use for their own benefit."

He had said the same thing before many times. Once Azriya replied with: _Only because _aeglos _is terribly mouthwatering. No one can disagree to that._ Then she laughed as if she had made the most amusing joke ever.

I murmured words of agreement to satisfy him as he continued to make sardonic comments on the Númenóreans, as if he was speaking great insight. When we drew near, he shushed himself and turned to me. His eyes seemed to glint in the torchlight.

"Whatever you may do, take caution."

I nodded, and he turned to the brazen doors. The two guards flanking us gave a curt synchronized nod and moved their spears to open them. They rolled forward with a creaking screech, falling open with a _boom_.

On the other side there was a mass of people conversing at long tables crafted of wood, the vast chamber dimly lit by flickering tallow candles. There was no heed paid to us as we entered, walking briskly down the path in the center. They were all men, banging their mugs of ale and throwing their heads back in laughter, save one girl around four or five years younger than I beside the Lord of Krâstomi. She was his daughter, a gangly girl of fifteen with a ghostly pale face and frightened eyes. She looked as if she were about to cry.

My father and I knelt before the Lord of Krâstomi. "Imhae, Chieftain of Nakkar, and Hyarizrê, Daughter of the Chieftain, pays respect to Lord Athugân of Krâstomi," my father said, bowing, and I did the same.

"You may rise," the Lord of Krâstomi said.

I looked up. Lord Athugân was a fairly plump man with a ruddy face and blue, condescending eyes. Whenever I looked at him, I felt as if I was staring at a hawk who was preparing to prey on me, or perhaps even a wild cat, squinting with such disdain that they seemed to morph into slits. He would tilt his chin up then down when he looked at me upon his wooden chair of a throne, assessing and silently threatening. It was told that he had been a formidable knight of Númenor in his youth, but after the worst had gone, he aged and fell into a lengthy state of drunken stupor. Thus his glory days were over, and he was sent to harass and suppress the peoples across the sea.

The hall had gone silent; curious eyes were watching these curious people, strangers in a foreign city. I tried not to be distracted by them, but I could not help glancing skittishly to the sides.

Lord Athugân broke the silence, motioning to a table by him. "Please, sit." I noticed that it was a table for honored people, those of titled nobility, the privileged, prestigious, wealthy. Such a change was quite interesting. "We are very much honored to have you here with us tonight. Daerabêth, fetch our guests some good wine."

He was referring to his daughter. At the mention of her name, she looked suddenly up with wide, unwilling eyes. I wondered what was wrong.

"Go on." Lord Athugân urged her to the task as he surprisingly took the time to show us to our seats. "You wouldn't want to keep our guests waiting, would you?"

The girl hurried quickly away, as if running from a scolding schoolteacher.

I turned to my father, who was cleaning the table with his sleeve. It seemed he simply had to do something with his hands at the moment. "The girl—"

"Ah, yes. I am honored to be able to taste the brilliant Númenórean wine tonight. I dare not drink too much, in case I offend the Lord of Krâstomi by taking his generosity too earnestly." My father caught my eye as he spoke, warning me to say nothing.

Lord Athugân heard and smiled broadly. "What you speak of is folly, dear Chieftain. Drink your fill. Drink until you are a king and your stomach is churning with your drunkenness. Drink until the stars glow red and fall. Tonight is a good night. My generosity is not to be undermined."

My father laughed, a feeble attempt to hide his restlessness, as Daerabêth returned with a golden cup of wine for my father and a silver one for me.

"Good wine," my father said as he held aloft the cup and toasted to the King of Númenor.

I was glad I was not encouraged to drink any, but still feigned a sip just to be certain. I did not feel like drinking on such a night.

The Lord of Krâstomi leaned toward my father. "We do have some matters to speak about, do you not think?"

"Ah, yes, duly." My father reached for some grapes.

"I am afraid we are both aware that the Nakkar have not yet paid the tribute," Lord Athugân said in a tone so indifferent they could have been speaking of the weather.

"I apologize, my lord," my father began, "but Nakkar has indeed paid the initial agreed amount, yet you ask for more."

Lord Athugân smiled. "That may be true, Chieftain, but the Númenóreans are of dire need as of now. We need your aid."

My father sighed. "What do you require of us?"

"Livestock." The Lord of Krâstomi's words were simple, but I sensed something deeper within them. It was as I had dreaded, what my father had not dared to think. "I expect you'll have goats."

"We need them for our own. We are short of supplies."

"Do you consider our beliefs to be false, Chieftain?" Lord Athugân spoke quietly now, dangerously. "The Lord of Benevolence requires a sacrifice, which we must honor."

"I would never question you, my lord," my father said. "It is only that we cannot survive without our animals—" He broke off in a cough.

"Growing old, Chieftain?" Lord Athugân took a sip of his wine.

"No, I'm all right." He lowered his arm from where he had been covering his mouth, and my eyes widened.

"Your sleeve—"

His forearm was splattered with blood, the red dark and damp upon his sleeve. At the time I did not realize that it was I that had been screaming, but now that I recount the moment it could have only been me. A violent cough racked through his body and his legs shot up, crashing against the table in the spasm. He staggered to his feet and stole a few forced steps to the end of the hall, as if he was trying to run away.

Stumbling, he fell, one hand reaching forward as if to grasp something just out of reach, and shuddered, his face turning into a bruised purple as the veins swelled blue and burst in a tangle of pus and blood. The red blotches that dotted his body bulged and became as pink as an eel's tongue, and scarlet ran out of his nose in several streams. His bloodshot eyes, wide and defiant, met mine, and I _knew_. Blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, then he moved no more.

That was the first time I felt as cold and lonely as ice. After that, it became something familiar.

The Lord of Krâstomi had not moved from his seat, yet now he stood and came sweeping over to where I knelt, weeping, before my father's body.

"I'm sorry that had to happen," he murmured, almost kindly. "But I'm sure you know why."

His words confirmed the suspicion I did not want to admit.

"Your brother, Nârduaye, is the Chieftain of Nakkar now," Lord Athugân said. "I'm sure he will willingly pay the required tribute, won't he?" He smiled and helped me stand even as I shook him off.

_Don't touch me,_ I wanted to say, but I was too frightened to speak.

Lord Athugân leaned forward and brushed my hair back to whisper in my ear. "You remember your promise?"

I did not want to answer.

"Escort Lady Hyarizrê to her brother, please, so she can deliver the message." Lord Athugân clapped his hands and two guards came forward.

Now I mustered my courage to speak. "Don't touch me," I hissed, shaking the guards off, and glancing back at my father's body one more time, I hastily wiped my tears away. There was no time to weep. He had told me that himself, in life, that he knew this would happen.

* * *

A letter came to me the night after my father's funeral, telling of the decimation of yet another tribe of the Haradrim. This was no new tidings for me. After the Númenóreans had begun their mission of forcing colonization upon us twenty years ago, this had been a standard happening. We had become numb to cruelty, accustomed to it.

My little sister, Azriya, wandered into my tent—when we moved, we had lines of oxen pulling our great wains and tents along the road. No, we were not a poor people, not until the Númenóreans came and deprived us of our freedom and discriminated us, made jests on our ways.

I hastily slipped the letter into the sleeve of my garb as she entered, but she saw.

"Hyarizrê," she said, settling down in a cross-legged position before me. Unlike other children, she called me, as her older sibling, by my name. Generally I would be called _enime_, which was a specific term for older sister. "You are hiding something from me." She was highly perceptive for her age, even amongst most people, and she did not speak like a child. "There is nothing you need to hide from me."

"You might say that," I told her, "because you do not know what it is."

Azriya laughed, and I smiled.

"It is nothing more than the usual," I said, only to satisfy her. Suddenly I wanted very much to change the topic, so I asked about our brother. "How is Nârduaye doing, as the new Chieftain?"

She rolled her eyes. "The same."

This time we both laughed. I snorted, and she laughed more.

"Of course!" I exclaimed. "Nârduaye will always be the same, no matter what happens."

Azriya nodded, yawning. She pulled herself closer and rested her head on my shoulder, rubbing her eyes and staring sleepily in the fire. "I miss Father," she murmured.

I did not want to talk about him, but I did, for her. That was what a big sister was supposed to do. "He will be all right now," I said softly. "There are no Númenóreans to trouble him anymore."

"I hope so," Azriya whispered.

Like that, she fell asleep, and I was left to stare in the crackling fire alone. After a while, I lifted her head gently off my shoulder and laid it on a blanket, tucking her in. When I had seen that she was comfortably situated, I stood and looked back to the fire, and found that I was not alone.

A Númenórean stood at the flap of the tent, waiting for me, his eyes glinting in the darkness. It was Razânukh again. I glanced back at Azriya, asleep under her blanket, before silently following him outside. For a little while, we walked along the moonlit path, unspeaking.

"They will call me a traitor if they find us here," I said at last. "My own people will be against me."

"But you are no traitor." He halted and turned to me, taking my hands in his own. "Are you, Hyarizrê?"

"No," I murmured. "This is for the sake of my people." My breath formed a cloud before my lips. "For their lives. For them to live on."

"For yours, too." Razânukh drew me close and his lips brushed mine.

I closed my eyes. "Can you promise that Azriya will be all right?"

"No." Razânukh cupped my face and tilted my chin up to meet my gaze. "I cannot promise anything, you know that. But to liberate, there must be a sacrifice."

Those words sounded so much like what my mother had told me I believed him, and I trusted him. I had to choose whether or not I wanted my people to live, or our culture. To me, lives were worth more. I was willing to let Nakkar die.

I did not realize I was crying until Razânukh kissed a tear away. "History will remember me as a villain," I whispered.

Razânukh had no words of consolation to say to that. "Hyarizrê. . ."

"I know what I have to do. I know what will happen." Again and again I murmured these words under my breath, my voice trembling a little. "Does it have to be a child?" I whispered. "Why can't it be me?"

"You have always known," he told me.

I had always known.

* * *

We were far enough away from the camp that I did not hear the ambush until I saw it—until I realized his deception. It was evident that he knew, that he was sent here specifically to distract me while the task was being done, to keep me out of danger while my brother was assassinated. I was returning to the camp, Razânukh not far behind me, when I saw the crowd, and pushing my way through, I felt my blood roaring in my ears, my breath laboured with fear.

Then I saw. Nârduaye, my late brother, his head on a stick.

For a moment time seemed to still, and intangible thoughts swirled in my mind. A misty covering veiled my sight and the ground was suddenly miles beneath where I floated, half a ghost myself. Fleeting memories, dreams, visions all drifted by and away, like dandelion seeds in the wind.

My rage emerged, my grief ebbing a fraction. I turned upon my heel to Razânukh. "How could you _do this to me?"_

He bowed his head. "You have always known."

I did. In order for the Lord of Krâstomi to maintain full control, all the leaders of Nakkar had to die. Not me, though. I was a woman, and I had no power in the Númenórean society.

People were starting to whisper. The word _traitor_ was at the tips of their tongues, directed toward me. They saw now, they knew. But not everything. They did not understand—

I had to prove to them.

I pointed to Razânukh. "The Númenórean is to be executed."

His eyes widened in surprise and terror as two of my guards seized his arms. "Hyarizrê. Hyarizrê, no."

"Execute him like how they killed my brother."

He was screaming, crying out my name, but I turned away.

* * *

_To save the people, there must be a sacrifice._ _You have always known._

"Take this letter to the weaver in Krâstomi," I said, handing a paper to one of my guards. It was unsigned and contained three words: _It is time._

"My lady," he said, inclining his head. "There are no more weavers in Krâstomi. They have been replaced by the devices of the King's High Priest of Melkor, Tar-Mairon."

This did not surprise me. "Find her, then. She will still be in the city."

When the guard left, I went to Azriya, who was admiring her new garb in the looking-glass, a dress of blue that complemented her eyes and her name; _Azriya_ was the word for the sea in our native tongue. _The sea will be her beginning and ending._

"What do you think?" she asked.

"It looks beautiful on you," I told her.

She smiled and spun around, her dress billowing out like a cloud.

"It's almost time to go, Riya," I said quietly.

"I'm ready. Why are we waiting?"

So I took her arm and we marched out together to meet the guards. They stood tall and sullen, as they always did, but even in them there was a trace of uneasiness.

"This way, my lady," one of them said to me, gesturing.

Azriya and I mounted our horses and began a slow trot toward the city of Krâstomi. The morning was riddled with trees enveloped grey mist and screeching ravens, and all seemed to be silent save their intermittent _shrieks_ coming from somewhere in the grey. The daunting walls of Krâstomi loomed over us as we approached the gates, our horses flicking their tails skittishly and snorting. The watcher on the wall glimpsed us and called down for the small gate to be opened for our entrance.

"I'm not frightened, Hyarizrê," Azriya whispered.

I nodded, not knowing what my reply should be to that.

"I lied," she said. "I'm frightened."

I squeezed her hand. "It's going to be all right."

We rode in through the gates and a guard greeted us with a sharp nod. Silently, he began to lead our small company. When we reached the tower of the Lord of Krâstomi, Azriya and I dismounted, I turning to her.

"I have to go meet with Lord Athugân," I told her, taking her hands in my own. "Everything will be all right."

Azriya nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Everything will be all right," I repeated, as if saying it again would change anything. "It's time for me to go now, Riya." Must this be the last time? I had not treasured our time together—not enough—not until our last moments together.

"Go, Hyarizrê," she said. "I am not frightened."

I turned away, a tear sliding down my cheek. Wiping it hastily away, I glanced up to the tower and ascended the stairs. There was no going back.

* * *

"I have done as you commanded, my lord," I said, kneeling before Lord Athugân.

Even he was incredulous, sensing deceit. "Truly?"

"Yes." My head was still bowed before him. _For the lives of my people._

He seemed to believe me. "Impressive." Lord Athugân stood and began to pace around me. "Very good. The Lord of Benevolence will at last be content with his gift." The Lord of Benevolence was their god, the god of the Númenóreans who shamed our Harad gods. Lord Athugân turned to me. "The sacrifice will be on the morrow."

_To save the people, there must be a sacrifice._ _You have always known._ I said nothing.

"Do you have any requests, Lady Hyarizrê?"

I raised my head. "I want you to know something, Lord Athugân." Slowly, I rose to my feet then walked toward where he sat upon his table, drinking out of a golden goblet. "Do you know what it is I want you to know? I want you to know that no matter how many lives you unrighteously steal, their legacies will live on. I want you to know that no matter how much you oppress and abuse my people, Nakkar will never die. I want you to know that someday, the Haradrim will arise and become its own people again, not slaves to your hideous games."

My hand rose to slide my silver hair ornament out of my tresses and fell to stab the blunt point into Lord Athugân's throat. His eyes widened in shock as blood spurted out of his mouth, something like a snake's tongue lashing out, then stared up at me in utter disbelief. I clenched my jaw, hardening my heart into stone.

"And do you know what I know? I know that killing you won't make a difference in the world, but it will make a difference in Nakkar, because I will have avenged those you persecuted, those you have killed. I can die content now, knowing that these are the last words your ears will hear."

* * *

I was still stabbing Lord Athugân's corpse when the guards wrenched me away. From there, it was all the same—they confined me to a cell and spoke of my nearing execution. There was no trial; none was needed for a murderer, especially not a Harad woman.

Days passed. The guards talk very much, about things they should and things they shouldn't. It was surprising of how much they knew. And it was from them that I heard about you, Riya. They spoke of a Harad girl who had escaped the ritual sacrifice for the Lord of Benevolence, and I knew that the weaver had fulfilled her debt to Nakkar. You might have many questions about her—who she is, where she is from, why she helped you escape, but you can trust her. I asked her to give this to you when you are older, so you could remember all that had happened. You must not forget.

By the time you read this, I will be long dead. It's odd thinking how these will be the last words I will ever write, but it's all right now. You are here, Azriya, to keep the memory of Nakkar alive. Fight to never let the Haradrim become slaves again. I have faith that you can bring hope back to this world.

Your sister,

Hyarizrê


	2. Author's Note

Author's Note

* * *

This story was meant to depict another perspective that is not often perceived. In Tolkien's works, the Haradrim are described as "fell folk" and "cruel and tall", a vile, disgraceful people. They fight against our protagonist, Aragorn, in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. In the past, their ancestors betrayed the Elves in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. There are much too many reasons to dislike this people from what we are told.

Nonetheless, to look at this with a historical view, we cannot analyze only this perspective of the situation and must eliminate all bias. As I was researching for this on Tolkien Gateway, I found that there was indeed another story. Here I quote:

"_After the reign of Tar-Ciryatan, the Númenóreans began to set themselves up as lords in __Middle-earth_

_as they demanded tribute of goods and wealth, causing the oppression of the Haradrim._

_Under Ar-Pharazon, the Númenóreans made war on the Men of Middle-earth,_

_enslaving them and using them for human sacrifices."_

Here we find that the Haradrim were an oppressed people in Middle-earth, and therefore their descriptions are skewed. The _Return of the King_ is in the perspective of 'protagonists' like Aragorn, who is himself descended from Númenórean heritage as "the last Chieftain of the Dúnedain and a direct descendant through many generations of Isildur, the last High King of both Arnor and Gondor." His bias affects our view of the Haradrim, though it is interesting to think of how Aragorn is descended from these quite villain-like Númenóreans even as a protagonist of _Lord of the Rings_.

And no, I did not come up with the idea of human sacrifices; it was indeed something that the Númenóreans actually did. Now this actually made me think of some specific times in history, which had me thinking of colonization, imperialism, and industrialization concepts. Sometimes it seems Tolkien actually defends imperialism, which is odd. We know from the _Scouring of the Shire_ chapter that he certainly doesn't like industrialism, but it seems he only thinks this because of the trees and destroyed nature.

One of the most well-known instances of colonization was when Europe colonized Africa and attempted ardently to convert them to Christianity by sending missionaries and building churches. Little did they know that this was actually an attempt for Europe to gain more material wealth, an example of the effects of industrialization and imperialism. According to an article by Dr. Gustav Adolph Warneck, "Etherington (1977) stated that only 12% of people on mission settlements were there for 'spiritual' reasons. The majority sought either material advantage or psychological security." The Europeans were evidently very racist, most missionary societies proclaiming that:

"_Their bottomless superstitions, their vile habits and heathen customs—their system of polygamy and witchcraft—their incessant beer-drinks and heathen dances which are attended by unspeakable abominations—these present a terrible barrier to the spread of Christianity and civilization." (Wilkinson 1898)_

Thus I connected the two situations together—Europe and Númenor were parallel here as were the Haradrim and African society. This now creates an entirely different perspective for the Haradrim.

In the beginning, however, I meant for the Haradrim to be based on pastoral nomadic societies, for example the Mongolians. I realized that it was likely meant for these two societies to be integrated in one for this to come together artfully. The Mongolians, like the Haradrim, are greatly villainized, known for building the largest land empire in history. In order to build this empire, they had to enforce strict laws that was not to the favor of many.

Therefore, the Haradrim are people like any other, and should not be treated as villains or inferior. They are parallel to societies in history—they are a society that does not have their voice often heard. The Mongolians were frequently villainized because they had no written language as nomadic pastoral people. When they conquered other countries such as China, the Chinese wrote terrible things about them, poems telling of the decimation of villages and kingdoms. The Mongolians had no way to respond to this in a written form, and it is only the written forms that are preserved. If they speak, their words will not live on unless they are written down.

What is interesting with Tolkien is that, as I previously stated, he seems to be in partial agreement with imperialism. Because Tolkien wrote the _Lord of the Rings_, we see his bias, his perspective through his writing. Here is one instance in which he describes the Haradrim in _The Return of the King,_ 'Chapter VI, The Battle of the Pelennor Fields':

_"He now was destroyed; but Gothmog the lieutenant of Morgul had flung them into the fray; Easterlings with axes, and Variags of Khand. Southrons in scarlet, and out of Far Harad black men like half-trolls with white eyes and red tongues. Some now hastened up behind the Rohirrim, others held westward to hold off the forces of Gondor and prevent their joining with Rohan."_

Now we might wonder—is Tolkien of the same view as the colonizers? That is up to opinion, of course, but I have to say he has some problems with racism. Take some other examples of the Vanyar versus the Sindar and Eöl, father of Maeglin. Therefore, whenever we read, we must first analyze the author's bias and perspective.

I could totally keep going but I'm tired and I have no idea why I'm writing an essay about this at midnight. Essentially, what I'm trying to say is try to put yourself in a new perspective when you read. It's very interesting. Thank you for reading my story.


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